We said
a few hurried words about Mr. Hawthorne
in our last number, with the design of speaking
more fully in the present. We are still, however,
pressed for room, and must necessarily discuss his
volumes more briefly and more at random than their
high merits deserve.

The book
professes to be a collection of
tales yet is, in two respects, misnamed.
These pieces are now in their third republication,
and, of course, are thrice-told. Moreover, they
are by no means all tales, either in the ordinary
or in the legitimate understanding of the term.
Many of them are pure essays; for example, "Sights
from a Steeple," "Sunday at Home," "Little Annie's
Ramble," "A Rill from the Town Pump," "The
Toll-Gatherer's Day," "The Haunted Mind," "The
Sister Years," "Snow-Flakes," "Night Sketches,"
and "Foot-Prints on the Sea-Shore." We mention
these matters chiefly on account of their
discrepancy with that marked precision and finish
by which the body of the work is distinguished.

Of the
essays just named, we must be content to
speak in brief. They are each and all beautiful,
without being characterised by the polish and
adaptation so visible in the tales proper. A
painter would at once note their leading or
predominant feature, and style it repose.
There is no attempt at effect. All is quiet,
thoughtful, subdued. Yet this repose may exist
simultaneously with high originality of thought;
and Mr. Hawthorne has demonstrated the fact. At
every turn we meet with novel combinations; yet
these combinations never surpass the limits of the
quiet. We are soothed as we read; and withal is a
calm astonishment that ideas so apparently obvious
have never occurred or been presented to us
before. Herein our author differs materially from
Lamb or Hunt or Hazlitt--who, with vivid
originality of manner and expression. have less
of the true novelty of thought than is
generally supposed, and whose originality, at
best, has an uneasy and meretricious quaintness,
replete with startling effects unfounded in
nature, and inducing trains of reflection which
lead to no satisfactory result. The Essays of
Hawthorne have much of the character of Irving,
with more of originality, and less of finish;
while, compared with the Spectator, they have a
vast superiority at all points. The Spectator,
Mr. Irving, and Mr. Hawthorne have in common
that tranquil and subdued manner which we have
chosen to denominate repose; but, in the
case of the two former, this repose is attained
rather by the absence of novel combination, or of
originality, than otherwise, and consists chiefly
in the calm, quiet, unostentatious expression of
commonplace thoughts, in an unambitious,
unadulterated Saxon. In them, by strong effort,
we are made to conceive the absence of all. In
the essays before us the absence of effort is too
obvious to be mistaken, and a strong undercurrent
of suggestion runs continuously beneath
the upper stream of the tranquil thesis. In
short, these effusions of Mr. Hawthorne are the
product of a truly imaginative intellect,
restrained, and in some measure repressed, by
fastidiousness of taste, by constitutional
melancholy and by indolence.

But it
is of his tales that we desire principally
to speak. The tale proper, in our opinion,
affords unquestionably the fairest field for the
exercise of the loftiest talent, which can be
afforded by the wide domains of mere prose. Were
we bidden to say how the highest genius could be
most advantageously employed for the best display
of its own powers, we should answer, without
hesitation--in the composition of a rhymed poem,
not to exceed in length what might be perused in
an hour. Within this limit alone can the highest
order of true poetry exist. We need only here
say, upon this topic, that, in almost all classes
of composition, the unity of effect or impression
is a point of the greatest importance. It is
clear, moreover, that this unity cannot be
thoroughly preserved in productions whose perusal
cannot be completed at one sitting. We may
continue the reading of a prose composition, from
the very nature of prose itself, much longer than
we can persevere, to any good purpose, in the
perusal of a poem. This latter, if truly
fulfilling the demands of the poetic sentiment,
induces an exaltation of the soul which cannot be
long sustained. All high excitements are
necessarily transient. Thus a long poem is a
paradox. And, without unity of impression, the
deepest effects cannot be brought about. Epics
were the offspring of an imperfect sense of Art,
and their reign is no more. A poem too
brief may produce a vivid, but never an intense or
enduring impression. Without a certain continuity
of effort--without a certain duration or
repetition of purpose--the soul is never deeply
moved. There must be the dropping of the water
upon the rock. De Béranger has wrought
brilliant things--pungent and
spirit-stirring--but, like all immassive bodies,
they lack momentum, and thus fail to
satisfy the Poetic Sentiment. They sparkle and
excite, but, from want of continuity, fail deeply
to impress. Extreme brevity will degenerate into
epigrammatism; but the sin of extreme length is
even more unpardonable. In medio tutissimus
ibis.

Were we
called upon, however, to designate that
class of composition which, next to such a poem
as we have suggested, should best fulfil the
demands of high genius--should offer it the most
advantageous field of exertion--we should
unhesitatingly speak of the prose tale, as Mr.
Hawthorne has here exemplified it. We allude to
the short prose narrative, requiring from a
half-hour to one or two hours in its perusal. The
ordinary novel is objectionable, from its length,
for reasons already stated in substance. As it
cannot be read at one sitting, it deprives itself,
of course, of the immense force derivable from
totality. Worldly interests intervening
during the pauses of perusal, modify, annul, or
counteract, in a greater or less degree, the
impressions of the book. But simple cessation in
reading, would, of itself, be sufficient to
destroy the true unity. In the brief tale,
however, the author is enabled to carry out the
fullness of his intention, be it what it may.
During the hour of perusal the soul of the reader
is at the writer's control. There are no external
or extrinsic influences--resulting from weariness
or interruption.

A skilful
literary artist has constructed a tale.
If wise, he has not fashioned his thoughts to
accommodate his incidents; but having conceived,
with deliberate care, a certain unique or single
effect to be wrought out, he then invents such
incidents--he then combines such events as may
best aid him in establishing this preconceived
effect. If his very initial sentence tend not to
the outbringing of this effect, then he has failed
in his first step. In the whole composition there
should be no word written, of which the tendency,
direct or indirect, is not to the one
pre-established design. And by such means, with
such care and skill, a picture is at length
painted which leaves in the mind of him who
contemplates it with a kindred art, a sense of the
fullest satisfaction. The idea of the tale has
been presented unblemished, because undisturbed;
and this is an end unattainable by the novel.
Undue brevity is just as exceptionable here as in
the poem; but undue length is yet more to be
avoided.

We have
said that the tale has a point of
superiority even over the poem. In fact, while
the rhythm of this latter is an essential
aid in the development of the poet's highest
idea--the idea of the Beautiful--the
artificialities of this rhythm are an inseparable
bar to the development of all points of thought or
expression which have their basis in
Truth. But Truth is often, and in very
great degree, the aim of the tale. Some of the
finest tales are tales of ratiocination. Thus the
field of this species of composition, if not in so
elevated a region on the mountain of Mind, is a
table-land of far vaster extent than the domain of
the mere poem. Its products are never so rich,
but infinitely more numerous, and more appreciable
by the mass of mankind. The writer of the prose
tale, in short, may bring to his theme a vast
variety of modes or inflections of thought and
expression--(the ratiocinative, for example, the
sarcastic, or the humorous) which are not only
antagonistical to the nature of the poem, but
absolutely forbidden by one of its most peculiar
and indispensable adjuncts; we allude, of course,
to rhythm. It may be added here, par
parenthèse, that the author who aims
at the purely beautiful in a prose tale is
laboring at great disadvantage. For Beauty can be
better treated in the poem. Not so with terror,
or passion, or horror, or a multitude of such
other points. And here it will be seen how full
of prejudice are the usual animadversions against
those tales of effect, many fine examples
of which were found in the earlier numbers of
Blackwood. The impressions produced were wrought
in a legitimate sphere of action, and constituted
a legitimate although sometimes an exaggerated
interest. They were relished by every man of
genius: although there were found many men of
genius who condemned them without just ground.
The true critic will but demand that the design
intended be accomplished, to the fullest extent,
by the means most advantageously applicable.

We have
very few American tales of real merit--we
may say, indeed, none, with the exception of "The
Tales of a Traveller" of Washington Irving, and
these "Twice-Told Tales" of Mr. Hawthorne. Some
of the pieces of Mr. John Neal abound in vigor
and originality; but in general, his compositions
of this class are excessively diffuse,
extravagant, and indicative of an imperfect
sentiment of Art. Articles at random are, now and
then, met with in our periodicals which might be
advantageously compared with the best effusions of
the British Magazines; but, upon the whole, we are
far behind our progenitors in this department of
literature

Of Mr.
Hawthorne's Tales we would say,
emphatically, that they belong to the highest
region of Art--an Art subservient to genius of a
very lofty order. We had supposed, with good
reason for so supposing, that he had been thrust
into his present position by one of the impudent
cliques which beset our literature, and
whose pretensions it is our full purpose to expose
at the earliest opportunity; but we have been most
agreeably mistaken. We know of few compositions
which the critic can more honestly commend than
these "Twice-Told Tales." As Americans, we feel
proud of the book.

Mr. Hawthorne's
distinctive trait is invention,
creation, imagination, originality--a trait which,
in the literature of fiction, is positively worth
all the rest. But the nature of originality, so
far as regards its manifestation in letters, is
but imperfectly understood. The inventive or
original mind as frequently displays itself in
novelty of tone as in novelty of matter.
Mr. Hawthorne is original at all points.

It would
be a matter of some difficulty to
designate the best of these tales; we repeat that,
without exception, they are beautiful.
"Wakefield" is remarkable for the skill with which
an old idea--a well-known incident--is worked up
or discussed. A man of whims conceives the
purpose of quitting his wife and residing
incognito, for twenty years, in her
immediate neighborhood. Something of this kind
actually happened in London. The force of Mr.
Hawthorne's tale lies in the analysis of the
motives which must or might have impelled the
husband to such folly, in the first instance, with
the possible causes of his perseverance. Upon
this thesis a sketch of singular power has been
constructed.

"The Wedding
Knell" is full of the boldest
imagination--an imagination fully controlled by
taste. The most captious critic could find no
flaw in this production.

"The Minister's
Black Veil" is a masterly
composition of which the sole defect is that to
the rabble its exquisite skill will be
caviare. The obvious meaning of
this article will be found to smother its
insinuated one. The moral put into the
mouth of the dying minister will be supposed to
convey the true import of the narrative;
and that a crime of dark dye (having reference to
the "young lady"), has been committed, is a point
which only minds congenial with that of the author
will perceive.

"Mr. Higginbotham's
Catastrophe" is vividly
original and managed most dexterously.

"Dr. Heidegger's
Experiment" is exceedingly well
imagined and executed with surpassing ability.
The artist breathes in every line of it.

"The White
Old Maid" is objectionable, even more
than the "Minister's Black Veil," on the score of
its mysticism. Even with the thoughtful and
analytic, there will be much trouble in
penetrating its entire import.

"The Hollow
of the Three Hills" we would quote in
full, had we space;--not as evincing higher talent
than any of the other pieces, but as affording an
excellent example of the author's peculiar
ability. The subject is commonplace. A witch
subjects the Distant and the Past to the view of a
mourner. It has been the fashion to describe, in
such cases, a mirror in which the images of the
absent appear; or a cloud of smoke is made to
arise, and thence the figures are gradually
unfolded. Mr. Hawthorne has wonderfully
heightened his effect by making the ear, in place
of the eye, the medium by which the fantasy is
conveyed. The head of the mourner is enveloped in
the cloak of the witch, and within its magic folds
there arise sounds which have an all-sufficient
intelligence. Throughout this article also, the
artist is conspicuous--not more in positive than
in negative merits. Not only is all done that
should be done, but (what perhaps is an end with
more difficulty attained) there is nothing done
which should not be. Every word tells
and there is not a word which does not
tell.

In "Howe's
Masquerade" we observe something which
resembles plagiarism--but which may be a
very flattering coincidence of thought. We quote
the passage in question.

"With a
dark flush of wrath upon his brow they saw
the general draw his sword and advance to meet the figure
in the cloak before the latter had stepped one pace upon
the floor.

"The figure,
without blenching a hair's breadth
from the sword which was pointed at his breast, made a
solemn pause, and lowered the cape of the cloak from his
face, yet sufficiently for the spectators to catch a
glimpse of it. But Sir William Howe had evidently seen
enough. The sternness of his countenance gave place to a
look of wild amazement, if not horror, while he recoiled
several steps from the figure, and let fall his sword
upon the floor."--See vol. 2, page 20.

The idea
here is, that the figure in the cloak is
the phantom or reduplication of Sir William Howe;
but in an article called "William Wilson," one of
the "Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque," we
have not only the same idea, but the same idea
similarly presented in several respects. We quote
two paragraphs, which our readers may compare with
what has been already given. We have italicized,
above, the immediate particulars of resemblance.

"The brief
moment in which I averted my eyes
had been sufficient to produce, apparently, a material
change in the arrangement at the upper or farther end
of the room. A large mirror, it appeared to me, now
stood where none had been perceptible before: and as I
stepped up to it in extremity of terror, mine own
image, but with features all pale and dabbled in
blood, advanced with a feeble and tottering
gait to meet me.

"Thus it
appeared I say, but was not. It was
Wilson, who then stood before me in the agonies of
dissolution. Not a line in all the marked and singular
lineaments of that face which was not even identically
mine own. His mask and cloak lay where he had
thrown them, upon the floor." --Vol. 2 p. 57.

Here it
will be observed that, not only are the
two general conceptions identical, but there are
various points of similarity. In each
case the figure seen is the wraith or duplication
of the beholder. In each case the scene is a
masquerade. In each case the figure is cloaked.
In each, there is a quarrel--that is to say, angry
words pass between the parties. In each the
beholder is enraged. In each the cloak and sword
fall upon the floor. The "villain, unmuffle
yourself," of Mr. H. is precisely paralleled by a
passage at page 56 of "William Wilson."

In the
way of objection we have scarcely a word to
say of these tales. There is, perhaps, a
somewhat too general or prevalent
tone--a tone of melancholy and mysticism.
The subjects are insufficiently varied. There is
not so much of versatility evinced as we
might well be warranted in expecting from the high
powers of Mr. Hawthorne. But beyond these
trivial exceptions we have really none to make.
The style is purity itself. Force abounds. High
imagination gleams from every page. Mr.
Hawthorne is a man of the truest genius. We only
regret that the limits of our Magazine will not
permit us to pay him that full tribute of
commendation, which, under other circumstances, we
should be so eager to pay.